


Seven Nation Army

by tiger_moran



Series: Lyric [11]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Don't copy to another site, Grief/Mourning, Loss, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Referenced James Moriarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27488968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: Eleventh in a collection of standalone but also interconnected Moriarty and Moran fics inspired by lyrics from songs, particularly pop/rock songs.
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty
Series: Lyric [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992709
Kudos: 6





	Seven Nation Army

**Author's Note:**

> Skáld - Seven Nation Army (original by The White Stripes)
> 
> And I'm talking to myself at night  
> Because I can't forget  
> Back and forth through my mind  
> Behind a cigarette

Sitting on the edge of the bed amongst crumpled sheets, an empty whisky bottle standing on the bedside table, Moran smokes, and he thinks, of the Professor scolding him for smoking in the bedroom, and yet... sometimes after they had lain together Moran would roll a cigarette and the Professor would periodically take it from him, take a drag on it, before handing it back. It was just a habit, one of his peculiar quirks wasn't it, pretending to disapprove but not really disapproving that much at all, as much as he may have disliked the bedroom reeking of cigarettes. Moran being deliberately disobedient and provocative in those little ways always amused him.

Now it's just Moran in an otherwise empty bed, an empty room, an empty house, the cigarette held between his fingers smouldering as he sits smoking, blowing smoke up towards the ceiling. A little ash drops onto the bedclothes and he brushes it away idly, smudging it onto the fabric.

“Who gives a fuck.”

There is nobody to chastise him for making marks on the bed linen, because this is not home, just a place to fall asleep in, when he does sleep. It's just him now, one man fighting against the world – this man who once fought with a whole army at his back; who managed a whole network of people for the Professor – he is alone now with only his fury towards Holmes and his longing for revenge to sustain him, and when he meets Holmes again... Well, after that, it doesn't matter. When it's over maybe he will finally find his peace, in the darkness.

And when he gets up, when he pads around in the dark, he sees his own reflection in the mirror, lit by the light of the moon. He doesn't much like what he sees - crumpled shirt and trousers from the day before, shadows under his eyes, hair overlong and tousled every which way, beard rather unkempt too. He turns around to regard himself from another angle. He's losing weight, he supposes. If it weren't for the braces his trousers might well slip down over his hips now. He clamps the cigarette between his teeth as he leans forward to peer at his own image.

“Who gives a fuck,” he says again, his voice cracking, talking to nobody at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't really sure how to categorise this one. However since Moriarty/Moran is still extremely relevant to this (and all the rest of the fics that will be in this series), I decided to categorise it as M/M and Moriarty/Moran.


End file.
